“Before I make any reply to your proposition, Mr. Bulstrode, I must beg you to answer a question or two.  Were you connected with the business by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?”

Mr. Bulstrode’s thought was, “Raffles has told him.”  How could he refuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth the question?  He answered, “Yes.”

“And was that business—­or was it not—­a thoroughly dishonorable one—­ nay, one that, if its nature had been made public, might have ranked those concerned in it with thieves and convicts?”

Will’s tone had a cutting bitterness:  he was moved to put his question as nakedly as he could.

Bulstrode reddened with irrepressible anger.  He had been prepared for a scene of self-abasement, but his intense pride and his habit of supremacy overpowered penitence, and even dread, when this young man, whom he had meant to benefit, turned on him with the air of a judge.

“The business was established before I became connected with it, sir; nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind,” he answered, not raising his voice, but speaking with quick defiantness.

“Yes, it is,” said Will, starting up again with his hat in his hand.  “It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decide whether I will have transactions with you and accept your money.  My unblemished honor is important to me.  It is important to me to have no stain on my birth and connections.  And now I find there is a stain which I can’t help.  My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear of it as she could, and so will I. You shall keep your ill-gotten money.  If I had any fortune of my own, I would willingly pay it to any one who could disprove what you have told me.  What I have to thank you for is that you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it.  It ought to lie with a man’s self that he is a gentleman.  Good-night, sir.”

Bulstrode was going to speak, but Will, with determined quickness, was out of the room in an instant, and in another the hall-door had closed behind him.  He was too strongly possessed with passionate rebellion against this inherited blot which had been thrust on his knowledge to reflect at present whether he had not been too hard on Bulstrode—­too arrogantly merciless towards a man of sixty, who was making efforts at retrieval when time had rendered them vain.

No third person listening could have thoroughly understood the impetuosity of Will’s repulse or the bitterness of his words.  No one but himself then knew how everything connected with the sentiment of his own dignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation to Dorothea and to Mr. Casaubon’s treatment of him.  And in the rush of impulses by which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode’s there was mingled the sense that it would have been impossible for him ever to tell Dorothea that he had accepted it.